


Sweating the Action All Over the Room

by beedekka



Category: Harley Davidson and the Marlboro Man (1991)
Genre: M/M, Pool hustling, Save a horse: ride a cowboy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 12:52:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7640965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beedekka/pseuds/beedekka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harley went cold turkey on the Marlboro Man two years ago, but it turns out that some things are really hard to quit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweating the Action All Over the Room

**Author's Note:**

  * For [galerian_ash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/galerian_ash/gifts).



> Thank you for requesting this awesome canon, galerian_ash - I hope you enjoy this re-imagining of the start of the movie :)
> 
> Apologies to any cue sports fans for how badly I've mangled pool jargon in the name of creating tawdry double-entendres!

_-Before-_

 

Harley sighed and blew a thin stream of smoke out to hover in the air beyond the open window of the motel suite. The neon sign nailed to the wall beside it flashed between red and blue, buzzing and clicking each time the colour switched, and casting an eerie light across the smoke wreathing the window frame. He had a beautiful woman sleeping naked in the bed behind him, but he had no appetite to go back and lie beside her; as alluring as her eyes and hips had been a few hours ago, when it came to touching and tasting and breathing hard against sweat-slicked skin, she hadn’t – _couldn’t have_ – filled the space his heart was missing when he’d impulsively picked her up at the diner counter. It was his old routine: sweet talk the waitress over late night cherry pie, and take her home at the end of the shift… Only tonight he was hungry for, and lonely for, something more than sugared pastry and soft lips. When he should have been lost in her kisses, his restless mind supplied him with whirling memories of rough stubble, bar-fight scars, and calloused fingers gripping his thighs, and he had to close his eyes and bite his tongue when he came.

Afterwards, the questioning quirk of her eyebrows had sent heat rushing to Harley’s cheeks, and he’d escaped to the window to smoke his way through a three-quarter-full pack of reds while the sound of the radio drifted in from the room below. He could hear the DJ calling time on this Independence Day, 1996. That made it two years since he’d left Cali, and twelve months since he’d rolled into a garage forecourt on the outskirts of Dallas and offered to fix anything on two wheels in exchange for an honest wage and a chance to find out if he had what it took to settle down in one place.

Well, it seemed like the answer was ‘no’.

Sweat itched on his skin and prickled up his spine, and Harley wondered if the water pressure in this cheap-ass No-tell would stand a midnight shower strong enough to actually cool him down, or whether he should make the effort to put his pants on and duck out to the parking lot to jemmy a can of Dr Pepper from the vending machine under the stairs. Problem was, his bike was sitting there too, and with the mood he was in right now he could just as easily see himself swinging straight into the saddle and hitting the highway in a cloud of dust instead of coming back up here, and that was neither sensible (when he’d actually accumulated a decent enough bagful of possessions to miss ‘em if he pulled a midnight flit), nor particularly gentlemanly towards his sweet Miss American Pie.

No, tonight might have crystallised the realisation that he had to leave, but before he set out on the road _this time_ , he was going to finish the cigarette, light another one, and pack his life up properly. If there was one thing he should have learned by now, it was that running first and thinking later would lead to nothing except more running, more restlessness, and more regret. He inhaled hard, automatically closing his eyes to savour the familiar taste of the smoke, and flexed his fingers around the comforting shape of the pack nestling in his palm; it was a tangible reminder of a habit that he’d come to rely on, and when he brushed his fingertips over the lightly embossed brand name, it was all so desperately poetic that he could have laughed out loud.

 

 

_-The Hustle-_

 

The landscape flashing past on either side of him as his wheels ate up mile after mile of asphalt struck Harley as no less impressive now than he’d found it the first time he made this pilgrimage; the road west was by turns epic and mundane, cluttered and vibrant at one moment and then barren and still the next. It gave him a strange feeling of unreality, like noticing the repetitive scroll of a painted paper screen being cranked from one roller to another in front of a movie camera. By the time his road trip hit the outskirts of L.A. he was ready to be there, and his spine began to prickle again in edgy anticipation, knowing that _he_ would be nearby.

Every dive bar, pool hall and amusement arcade in a twenty-block reach crowded onto Harley's mental radar, their beckoning facades and shining lights spelling names he well-remembered, and his mind provided a warning or a story relating to each one. These were places that he’d worked over and worked out of for so long that he could’ve found his way between them in his sleep; he’d certainly had enough experience of running from back doors and bathroom windows with angry brawlers and the bunko squad hot on his heels. The crucial thing was that he hadn’t done any of that alone: his partner in crime was with him then, and he would be here somewhere now.

After a whole day of swallowing down and pissing out Coca Cola in one hustler haunt after another, his tight leathers attracting outright curiosity in some and rendering him entirely invisible in others, Harley was taken by surprise when he finally ran into the reunion he’d been looking for. He’d wanted to do this on his terms, to hang at a distance and watch for a while – cement some little details back into his memory before the other man had a chance to take his guard – but evidently he was rusty (or distracted by the bright lights and mirrors of a Rock-Ola jukebox playing classics from forty years ago), and the Marlboro Man saw him first.

“Well, howdy partner. You are one sight I did not expect to encounter today.”

Marlboro’s hand was warm on his shoulder, arm casually slipping around Harley’s back as the needle dropped on Johnny Burnette’s ‘Train Kept A-Rollin’.

“Nice selection,” Marlboro continued. “Since you’re here, you want to help me earn some money from an asshole with more rings than brain cells?”

Harley watched himself smile in the mirrored reflection behind the Rock-Ola’s title strips, the expression belying a flip in his stomach that he was sure Marlboro could feel ripple out through his frame, their denim and leather separating skin from skin by scant millimetres. It was a reaction that could be easily written off by the unexpected suddenness of the touch, but that was only half the story: the low rumble of that voice and the slight heat of whiskey on his breath, coupled with the firm press of Marlboro’s body, his hip settled against Harley's ass, was lighting him up inside like it was yesterday and not two years ago that they’d last been this close. He had to rein in the impulse to press back. Two years was a long time on the road, and he wasn’t sure whether Marlboro responding to his showing up out of the blue with a casual comment on his musical taste and a ‘Hey, since you’re here…’ was a good sign or not.

“How about I sit out this time and watch the master at work?” Harley asked him. “Gimme a show.”

Marlboro’s grin split his face as he tipped his hat and turned to stride over to the pool table, where a huge guy surrounded by laughing men and silent women was holding court at the foot end, glittering jewellery on his wrists and fingers indicating him as the mark for Marlboro’s current challenge. Harley had to give his partner credit for the size of his cojones: this guy clearly felt he owned the table, and he had a few more bodies in his crew than Harley would have been comfortable with having around at paying up time. If the mark decided to pitch a fit and call in the reinforcements, that was a lot of muscle to fight off. He briefly considered stepping in as a third challenger after all, just to be closer to the action, but he didn’t have one bill to lay down, let alone the five Marlboro was busy proposing.

“What the hell, you wanna go six?” he was asking the big guy. “I thought I already spent this one, but it’s been right here all the time, caught in these damn jeans.” Marlboro pulled a crumpled Benji from his pocket, smoothing it out on the head end of the table and holding it up for examination. “Ain’t so pretty, but they all count the same when it comes to banking ‘em, right?”

Six hundred dollars seemed a high bet by Marlboro’s usual standards, and Harley wondered if he’d been ramping up his action over the time he’d been gone; he had certainly ramped up the brag act, posturing and making himself look like the one with more money than sense. The guy nodded his agreement to the new terms and Harley noted that both of them were leaving the money in the rack for the game, a reasonable sign that they intended to settle up, not skip out, when the bet concluded. So far everything looked like it was shaping up polite and neat; maybe it would stay that way?

Harley leant against the jukebox and relaxed a shade. Marlboro was naturally good at this, and whatever he didn’t have in God-given talent for messing about with sticks and balls and cards and chips, his old man had filled in the gaps (‘before he left this shitty world’), teaching Marlboro every trick in the book and all the patter to go with ‘em.

Marlboro bent down to break, giving Harley a prime view of his ass in those jeans, and ‘Gimme a show’ suddenly took on some extra meaning as Harley’s eyes followed the curve and flex of his body over the table. How many hours of his life had he spent in this exact position, standing on some sticky lino in a smoky room as his partner carefully reeled in a sucker, ready to step in and distract, deter or damage his opponent should the need arise? It was a high number, and for a good chunk of that time Harley had fought the same losing battle he’d slipped into right now: keeping his concentration on the game and not the player wasn’t so easy when Marlboro’s movements were this fluid and the thrill of the gamble was animating his eyes and his hands. When he was hustling, his whole body exuded confidence and, for Harley, the raw appeal of his sexuality poured out with it. That was what had started this whole damn thing off in the first place; that little slip from being road partners to… whatever it was they became every time they closed the gap between them in motel beds and moving railcars.

And Harley wasn’t sure if he was always the one who moved first because he wanted it more, or if Marlboro was just setting him up to do it all along ( _‘I get in high gear when you’re watching my back, buddy’_ , _‘I am what I am’_ – if he wasn’t deliberately tweaking Harley’s chain with little comments like that, then Marlboro must speak without listening to himself). The cowboy was as much of a flirt as Harley was, and when he was turning on the charm, it was hard to look away. Pile a sense of humour, formidable skill at everything he turned his hand to, and loyalty that ran deep as an ocean on top of that, and it was little wonder that Harley could never pass over the chance to feel his heat up close.

A ripple of astonishment in the small crowd around the table yanked his attention off Marlboro’s thighs and back to the baize, and he saw his partner was already more than half way to a run out, making a shot look easy that Harley knew was near-impossible for most players. The big man with his diamond rings could only stand impotently on the side, gripping his cue in one glittering fist and making a face that said he knew he was being hustled now.

“Looks like Lady Luck remembers my name today,” Marlboro commented breezily, putting away two shots in quick succession that were anything but lucky, before lining up on the money ball. He tapped it in with a tiny flick of the cue, and straightened up to murmurs of dissent.

_Here we go…_

“Dang.” Marlboro made a show of surveying the table. “I didn’t think it was gonna go that way; I feel bad about that! Play again to keep things gentlemanly? I can find some more to stake if you’re prepared to toss some of that ice into the pot.”

The mark glanced at his rings and sneered. “You’re a brave man, cowboy. Coming in here and pulling this.”

Marlboro held his hands up and flashed a wry smile. “Hey, it’s up to you if you want to read it that way, but I swear I’m only out for a good game. No hard feelings – I’ll just take my pot and split, and you can forget about me and enjoy the rest of the night.”

Yeah, by the way the mark’s crew was closing in around the table, _that_ wasn’t happening. Harley stood up a little straighter, fists automatically tensing in anticipation that Marlboro might not be able to defuse things. His pulse quickened as he clocked one of the men with his fingers creeping inside his jacket; if they were all packing, then Marlboro needed to cut his losses and back out of there soon – there was a world of difference between a fist and a gun when someone was waving ‘em in your face, and Harley had no desire to see this situation escalate into a shootout (not least because if he got caught in the crossfire he couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn with a bazooka himself).

“Aw, come on,” Marlboro was attempting to smooth the ruffled feathers. “We’re still friends here, having a friendly game, making some friendly bets… If you didn’t currently owe me six hundred dollars, fairly earned, we could all be sitting around having a friendly drink together right now.”

Harley groaned as he watched the expression on the mark’s face cover a range of reactions that were anything _but_ friendly in response to that. Don’t say anything about the guy’s lady, he silently willed.

“Of course, if you’d rather settle some other way, I’d be happy to take a night with your woman in my bed,” Marlboro offered.

_Fuck._

And that was it: the guy was nearly scrambling over the table to get at Marlboro, and all hell was breaking loose amongst the girls and the goons surrounding him. Harley knew his partner was quick on his toes when he needed to be, and he hoped he was going to straight haul ass rather than stay and brawl this one. Two of the crew were grabbing cues, and the man he’d clocked reaching for a gun just now had it out in the open and waving around. Thank God everyone was at too close a quarters for him to risk firing.

The big guy dived towards Marlboro, and a woman who must have been the one he’d just rudely propositioned was following suit. Harley winced and tried to see if they’d got him pinned down; he couldn’t _hear_ any muffled shouts for his help.

Mercifully, it didn’t seem like any of the assailants had paid enough attention to him and Marlboro at the jukebox earlier to form the impression that the two of them were actually connected, and none of the fight was coming in Harley’s direction. He used the element of anonymity to his advantage, shoving by the table and sweeping up the forgotten stake as he went. “Cowboy,” Harley bellowed, “BAIL!”

As he dodged towards the back door, he could hear Marlboro was hot on his heels by the storm he was swearing up, and he started to visualise the pattern of the alleys outside to expedite their escape.

“Left, left, past the palmist, home free,” Marlboro gasped out as they burst through the exit, as if he’d been reading Harley’s mind, and sure enough, by the time they’d cleared the ornate window of the palmistry shop they’d lost their pursuers.

Harley slowed and cut in to an empty side passage, letting Marlboro move past him to lean over against the wall, hands on his knees and breathing hard.

“Hoo boy, Harley! You took the money off the table, right? Tell me you got it.”

“Yeah, I got it, but—”

“Hell yeah, you did!” Marlboro cut him off with a delighted clap. “Then you can immediately use it to bankroll dinner at Sizzler for the both of us, and some over-the-counter pharmaceuticals capable of taking the edge off the very particular kind of dental pain that comes from getting smacked in the mouth by someone wearing the entire contents of the window display at Zales on their fist.” Marlboro spat on the ground as if to dramatise his point, and Harley could see blood amongst it.

“You lose a tooth?”

Marlboro wiped his mouth messily with the back of his hand before carefully tonguing around his teeth and grimacing. “Nah, my handsome smile is intact. No thanks to you, I might add. Didn't feel like joining the fray?”

“No thanks to me? No thanks to your ego,” Harley responded indignantly. “What was it your old man used to say? ‘Don’t hustle someone you _can’t_ hustle’? Words of wisdom, my friend.”

“You leave my old man out of it.” Marlboro glared at him. “And don’t tell me you’ve never gone straight in for the highest bet at the highest risk to speed things along a bit, ‘cause I know you have.”

“I might have, but there were six guys backing up that sucker in there! Some of ‘em were packing heat, plus the women on hand for them to look tough in front of… _That’s_ a game you decide to liven up by rubbing the hustle in his face?”

“It worked, didn’t it? I won.”

“For a given value of ‘worked’! If I hadn’t have been there you wouldn’t have got out alive _and_ with the cash.”

“I knew you were there, though, and I knew you’d back my play.” Marlboro paused and fixed him with a steely stare. “Hey, you swanned into my life again and earned three hundred dollars today. You’re welcome, by the way.”

 _That_ pulled Harley up short. The adrenaline spike of making the score and getting smacked in the face was apparently shaking a little of his partner’s anger loose, and Harley wondered if Marlboro was feeling the hurt of being deserted two years ago as much as the discomfort of a bloody lip right now.

Marlboro fumbled a cigarette out of the pack in his shirt and shoved it unlit into the corner of his mouth, before smoothing back his hair and re-positioning his hat; putting everything into place again. Then he rocked on his heels for a second and grabbed the cigarette between his fingers once more. “You got a light?”

“I thought you'd quit.”

“I’m un-quitting.”

Harley moved towards him and held out the flame, and Marlboro automatically brought his hands up to shield it, touching one palm lightly against the back of Harley’s knuckles. When he kept the contact for a second or two longer than a stranger would have, after the cigarette was already lit and spiralling smoke into the space between them, Harley took that as his opening.

“Listen, I know I pulled a shitty cut and run that night,” he began, quietly. “I know just how shitty ‘cause I’ve been on the receiving end of one of those myself – no note, no kiss goodbye, just gone in the morning. I’m an asshole for that, and a dickhead who didn’t understand what I was shoving away,” he admitted. “I’m sorry.”

Marlboro’s eyes widened; at his frankness, perhaps? Well, Harley didn’t care if he was laying it out like they were lovers who fucked it up, since they _were_ (and yes, he was fully aware that it was his damn fault. God knows why that taste of stability had scared him so much that he had to run all the way to Texas to work out if stability was something he could actually handle).

“Why’d you come back?” Marlboro asked him.

“Let’s just say that in all the thinking I did after that night, I guess I worked out that everything important that ever happened in my life stopped and started here. Also…” He swallowed. “I couldn’t get you out of my head.”

Marlboro took a slow drag on the smoke and held it down, expression unreadable. Then he replied, “You know what I figured? That it was just that time again; the time that rolls around every so often when you get antsy and wanna traverse the unknown lands for a while, and you ask me to go with you and I always say ‘no’.” Marlboro scuffed the ground with his boot. “So I thought that you just didn’t bother with the asking part for once.”

“Would you have said ‘yes’ if I had?”

Marlboro was silent long enough in response that Harley’s world lurched with the realisation of what it meant. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah, I was fixin’ to say ‘yes’ the next time.” Marboro flicked his cigarette away, the glowing ember end rolling haphazardly across the floor of the passage before settling to burn out in a crack. “After you were gone I decided it was kismet, ‘cause I should’ve said something before that day – given you some sort of signal that I’d gotten serious about what we were doing – but I didn’t, and you left, and I stayed.” He shrugged.

“And now I’m back…” Harley had to trail off, aware of how feeble what he’d been about to say would sound out loud.

Marlboro wasn’t letting him get away with that, though. “Now you’re back…” he prompted.

“I though we could…” Harley cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Could… pick up again?”

“Yeah. If you still want it. I know that I do.” Harley licked his lips and watched Marlboro think for a long moment, until the mounting tension in anticipation of his answer threatened to physically push its way out of him somehow and he had to surreptitiously press his hands flat to the leather below his hips to hide the shake. “Do you?” he asked, nearly whispering the words.

Marlboro let out a breath in a rush like he’d been holding it, suddenly meeting Harley’s eyes with a fierce intensity. “Yeah, I want it, Harley.”

Harley could have laughed with the flood of relief. If this was a movie he might’ve grabbed the other man’s face towards him and kissed him right there, but he held it in and exclaimed instead. “Jesus, I thought shit like this was supposed to feel easy when it all falls into place!”

“You’re telling me. If you’re not the one after all then I am _fucked_ , ‘cause I can’t have that conversation again in one lifetime.” Marlboro shook his head. “Now let’s get the hell out of here and into a bar before my heartrate puts me in a hospital.”

“You got any of those cigarettes left?”

“Did you really just ask me that? Partner, you’ll never want for ‘em again.”

 

 

_-The Morning After-_

 

Marlboro rolled over clumsily beside him, and Harley shifted to hook one knee across the back of his thighs, lazily rubbing up against his warm skin.

“I’m trapped,” Marlboro murmured sleepily.

“Uh huh. It’s too early to get out.”

“I don’t disagree.”

Harley smiled. There were plenty of times in the past when one or other of them _had_ dived out of bed first thing when they’d woken up in some crappy motel, wrapped in each other’s arms. “How’s your head?”

“Mouth’s sore. Hangover’s there somewhere, but if I don’t think about it, it doesn’t exist, right?”  

_Right._

“What exactly did we do last night?”

“Let’s see, what did we do?” Harley drew out the pause until he felt Marlboro tense a little underneath him. “Did you just remember the tattoo parlour, or the wedding chapel?”

“The wedding chapel?! I was remembering hanging on like hell to the neck of a mechanical bull for long enough that we walked out of that greasy bar with every pocket stuffed with cash.”

“Do you remember doubling it on the floor of the Monte Carlo?”

“Kinda… but hold on there, a _wedding chapel?”_ Marlboro scrambled around enough to meet Harley’s gaze, and Harley held his serious expression in place for the time it took Marlboro’s face to crack into laughter. “You asshole, you fuckin’ had me there for a second. I was really about to look at my hand.”

Harley grinned. “Elvis had the night off. Try your arm.”

Marlboro’s eyebrows shot up questioningly and he pulled his arm out from under the sheets. “Jeez, I thought that ache was a bruise!” He zeroed in on the small patch of fresh ink on his inside left forearm, just around from the curling smoke of the cigarette already etched on the other side, his skin raised and reddened around a neat black and orange badge. “Don’t tell me…”

Harley held up his own wrist to show the imprint of a familiar logo – black letters under an angular red bow.

“Oh God, and I bet it was my idea too, wasn’t it? Why didn’t you talk me out of it?”

“It was a good idea.” Harley shrugged. “Better than all the other scars we picked up together over the years.”

Marlboro examined his new artwork more closely for a moment, then shook his head ruefully. “It’s certainly better than all the splits and cuts I’ve gotten saving your ass out of fist fights up to now.”

“That would be me saving _your_ ass!” Harley corrected.

“Yeah yeah, well I know you got a vested interest in my ass.”

“What if I do?” Harley snaked a hand down and around to give it a generous squeeze, prompting a surprised jerk from Marlboro, followed by a look that was unmistakably his game face.

“Then why don’t you prove your stake, partner?” Marlboro invited, pushing back into Harley’s hand as if to emphasise the challenge.

Harley didn’t need asking twice: using the position advantage he already had, he pulled Marlboro swiftly across onto his front, kicking the covers down and manoeuvring himself to straddle the man’s naked thighs.

Marlboro was laughing underneath him, and Harley’s chest swelled at the sound; they hadn’t lost their connection – he could still make his partner smile and flirt and want him.

“Hey, you forget how to ride one of these?” Marlboro asked, catching how he’d paused. “Quit hovering and get in the saddle.”

“I’m going to it, gimme a chance!” he answered, hooking his chain off over his head and tossing it onto the nightstand so that it wouldn’t hang down in the way. Then he took a deep breath; his cock was hard as steel, and they hadn’t even kissed…

Harley hastily reached for the battered tube of KY from his bag beside the bed and slicked himself up with the jelly. Marlboro was pushing impatiently backwards, rolling his hips so that Harley’s cock would slide into the crack of his ass, and Harley had to physically draw himself away to ease the temptation to go along with it and push right in. “Uh-uh, hands first, let’s do it good.” He lubed two fingers and dipped in slow and easy until he felt Marlboro relax into the movement and start squirming to cant the angle just right. Harley flexed and crooked his fingers to give him what he wanted, earning a tight growl in response. “Like that?”

“Little harder…”

Harley shifted a touch more weight over his hand, taking his time and watching Marlboro start to flush and pinprick with sweat on the back of his neck. It made him want to lean down and touch his lips to his lover’s hairline, to whisper filthy words against his skin while he worked him open and riled him up.

“I forgot how good at this you are,” Marlboro flattered him. “Gonna shoot before the bell if you keep on too long.” That sent a flash of heat straight to Harley’s cock, and he figured it was meant to. Marlboro wouldn’t usually admit his self-control was as fragile as the rest of the world’s; letting Harley know that he had the power to shatter it was a smooth move.

“Hold still,” he warned, carefully extracting his fingers and lining up his cock to take their place. Kneeling over Marlboro’s legs and keeping them bracketed with his thighs, Harley was free to set the pace, and in contrast to his slow and steady finger-fuck, now he intended to push his lover hard. He drove in deep and sure, setting up a rhythm as heavy as an engine and revelling in the unguarded sounds it drew from Marlboro’s lips.

The mercury was rising along with Harley’s arousal, and he wondered how long he could keep this going before they both melted, but he wasn’t about to ease up while he had his partner so close, so completely _his_ in a way he’d spent so long thinking he’d lost for good.

“Oh fuck yeah, there; right there, don’t stop,” Marlboro breathed suddenly, trying to arch up and meet Harley harder, and bouncing the mattress with a twang as his legs flexed under Harley’s weight and rucked the covers around them.

Harley had him pinned down good, and with one hand gripping the top of the headboard and one sliding and stroking all over his lover’s broad shoulders, he kept his balance as he did exactly what Marlboro was begging him for, driving in to hit that spot over and over again until every muscle in each of their bodies was trembling. “Goddamn, cowboy,” he moaned, “you’re gonna break _me_ soon.”

Marlboro didn’t answer in words, just bucked more forcefully underneath him and raised a heartfelt gasp that told Harley he was about to lose it. Sure enough, one last shove into the mattress had Marlboro tensing and gripping around him, and then Harley was swearing loud as they came together.

“Holy shit,” he marvelled as soon as he had enough breath back to say it, holding his position shakily so that his partner could take a moment to come down before he pulled out. When Marlboro grunted against the pillow, Harley grinned and eased his weight back onto his knees, giving his lover a playful slap on the ass as he swung over and off him.

“Rode hard and put away wet,” Marlboro mumbled, rolling over too so that they could lie facing each other.

“Not stewed, screwed and tattooed?” Harley enquired, eyes flicking to take in the aftermath of his efforts. Marlboro was a satisfying sight: deeply flushed across his chest, glistening stickiness smeared at the tip of his cock.

Marlboro held his forearm out in front of him to look at its new addition again, turning it in the light. He smiled. “A little of that as well. I like it on me.” He nodded towards Harley’s wrist. “I like that on you.”

“Me too.”

“Hey,” Marlboro suddenly fixed him with that crazy intense look of his. “Don’t ever leave me waking up alone again. Promise me.”

“The tattoo’s a promise.” Harley reached to curve his arm around Marlboro’s waist and pull him closer. “I ain’t ever leaving unless you’re coming with me,” he vowed, leaning in to seal the deal between their lips.

 

_-The End-_


End file.
